


I've Got You Here

by ms_scarlet



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 03, Sex, Sharing a Bed, also nice things, and an USTy haircut, but seriously so much angst, if you're into that sort of thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7895788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ms_scarlet/pseuds/ms_scarlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Here." He thrusts one of the cups at her and she sets the rake aside to accept it. "You owe me a drink." </p><p>Clarke's answering smile is brighter than the moonlight, brighter than every shooting star he'd seen but hadn't let himself wish on while she'd been gone. </p><p>They settle on one of the walls bordering the fire pit and tap their cups together before drinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Got You Here

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thank yous and hugs to [storyskein](http://archiveofourown.org/users/storyskein/pseuds/storyskein), [dust_and_gold](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dust_and_gold/pseuds/dust_and_gold) and [wildpear](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wildpear/pseuds/wildpear) who are The Best in addition to the most excellent of betas. I’m sorry I cackled so hard over your suffering.
> 
> An extra special shout out to Pear who held my hand when I realized my short little for funsies character game had turned into an actual fic and then completely cracked the story when I fell into a pit of despair over the corner I’d plotted myself into. *hugs* and thank you thank you thank you. *edit* and also for teaching me how grammar works because lol what is the english language.
> 
> Title from Sheep in Wolves Clothing by little hurricane which I’ve been listening to on repeat for like, two weeks straight.

 

_The world is ending._

The words play on a loop in Bellamy's head as he rappels down the side of the Polis tower in a harness made from ragged pieces of the throne room’s curtains. Clarke descends on his right, her brow furrowed and mouth grim as she concentrates on sliding down. On his left, Miller hangs, his attention fixed on Bryan above him. They've double-rigged Bryan's harness in case the fever overwhelms him and he can't hold on, but Miller still insisted on going first. If Bryan was going to fall, he wanted to be there to catch him and if he couldn't they'd fall together. It seems like dying together is really the only thing to hope for on this fucked up planet. Bellamy shuts the thought away, focusing on the burn of the rope in his hands and trying his hardest to not think about how the world is ending and Octavia is out in it somewhere.

It doesn’t work.

When he’d returned to the throne room after a fruitless circuit of the tower looking for his sister, Clarke had been waiting just outside the door. She’d pulled him close and whispered the horrible tale of a rapidly dying planet into his ear, her fingers entwined with his, gripping tighter and tighter as she laid out the disaster in front of them. She'd stepped back and stared at him, her eyes solemn and shadowed. He'd gaped back, unable to find the words to offer her any kind of reassurance. The world is ending and their only chance to survive was so slim, the chances of finding it relied almost entirely on luck and when had either of them been all that lucky? 

"We'll figure something out." The words were weak, false- what was there to figure out when the entire planet had finally turned against them- but Clarke had jolted, a small, weary smile flashing across her face.

"We will." She'd squared her shoulders, putting on her armor, before turning towards the door. "First we have to get everyone down from here."

 

*****

 

Bellamy walks side by side with Clarke on the way back to Arkadia; they trail behind the long column of their people trudging through the woods, both of them lost in their heads.

"We have to tell them," he says eventually, pitching his voice low so it won't carry.

"I know." The weariness in Clarke's tone makes him ache. It wasn't supposed to be like this. They were supposed to have beaten the bad guy and earned a moment to rest before the next inevitable threat reared its head and came to swallow them whole.

"Just-" Clarke pauses, swallows. "Let's give them some time. They deserve a break."

Bellamy snorts, he can't help himself. They're out of time and they _all_ need a break. That sums up most of their lives on the ground.

Clarke glances at him out of the corner of her eye with a wry smile. "I know we don't have time to waste but there's nothing that can be done until we get back to Arkadia and have a chance to regroup."

He tips his head, they can wait for now. "Whenever you're ready." 

He focuses on Roan, marching ahead of them. To look at him, it was hard to believe they'd found him at the base of the tower a little over an hour ago, bleeding out from a gunshot wound to the chest. After Abby and Jackson had given him the little medical attention they were equipped for, he’d staggered upright, pale but determined, and declared he was well enough to walk. Abby was skeptical but so far the Ice King's words were holding true. He hasn't so much as slumped his shoulders during their trek. That hasn't stop Jackson from hovering nearby, ready to call the group to a halt if Roan started to go down. 

"Do you think he'll help us?" Bellamy asks, gesturing at Roan when Clarke looks over at him.

"I hope so. Azgeda's always been a volatile outlier but Roan’s reasonable and it would be in his people's best interests. If we can get him on our side he'll be helpful for getting the other clans to listen to us, whether out of fear or respect. Before she was killed, Nia had a lot of the ambassadors on her side and I'm sure those alliances were revived when Ontari became commander." 

Clarke's voice breaks a bit on the last word. He looks at her and her face is a mask, but the tension around her eyes gives her away. "I'm sorry." His voice is gruff and he swallows hard. "I know she- you-" he pauses, unsure of all of what Lexa was to Clarke. "I know she was important to you."

Clarke nods sharply but keeps marching, staring determinedly ahead and Bellamy's heart sinks. He shouldn't have said anything. What could he possibly have to say that she'd want to hear? He’d massacred Lexa’s army and undermined everything they’d been working for. Why would Clarke ever want to talk to him about her?

Then, underneath all of that, he’s ashamed to find relief. He doesn’t know if he wants to hear about Lexa, doesn’t know if he'd ever be able to see her as anything other than the person who’d attacked his people and left them in the mountain. 

"Thank you." Clarke's voice is barely audible over the sound of their footsteps. "I'm not...I'm not ready to talk about it yet." 

They walk on, their steps falling into unconscious unison. Bellamy tries to force himself to stay present but he keeps drifting back to Polis: to the grounders they'd left milling about trying to come to grips with what had happened. He'd felt a kinship with them he's never felt before when he'd seen their lost, horrified expressions as they took in the ruin of their once thriving capital, the streets now coated with the same blood covering their hands. 

A cold equation dictated they had to leave them; they didn't have the resources to help everyone, and even if they did it wasn't their place to tell them what to do. He wonders who, if anyone, would lead them. He still doesn’t understand the intricacies of their political system, ever since those first attacks on the ground he’d let his hatred sweep away any urge to try, but he knows the chip tucked away in Clarke's pocket plays a vital role. 

"I'm-I'm sorry too." Clarke's hesitant statement breaks through his thoughts. He glances over to see her watching him, her eyes grave. "I know you had-Gina? I overheard Raven and...she- she was in Mt Weather?" 

His teeth clench as Gina's face floats through his mind, her smile wide and bright as she passed him a drink, fond and warm as he'd said goodbye to her that last time. A sharp pain lances through his chest. How was it that so many good people were gone and he was still standing?

"I'm so sorry, Bellamy. I didn't know." Clarke's hand twitches, like she wants to reach for him but isn't sure it would be right. He’s glad when she lets the urge go; the comfort would be more than he deserves.

"She was-" he doesn’t know how to end that sentence. Gina was so many things but mostly she'd just deserved better: better than her fate, better than him. She'd deserved someone who could've given her everything, someone who could've matched her light. She hadn't deserved someone with so much death to his name, constantly looking over his shoulder, never entirely able to be present in the moment.

"She was good," he finally manages, knowing the words were woefully inadequate. "Better than me."

"Bellamy, you're-"

"Can we not do this now?" He cuts Clarke off, wincing when her face shutters. "No, I mean...I'm not..." He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I'm not ready either."

She chews on her lip and focuses again on the path ahead of them. "Do you think..." He can feel her gaze flick to him. "Do you think Octavia found Indra?"

Kane had led them to the cross he'd left the warrior on, his head hung low like an unimaginable weight rested on him. He'd nearly fallen to his knees when they found it empty, only Abby's arms around him had kept him upright.

"I hope so."

It makes him feel-- not better but something sort of like it-- to think that Octavia was out there with her mentor. As long as they were on the same side, there's no one he can think of who would fight as fiercely for her. Even if they were at crossed purposes, he was pretty sure Indra would at least try to have O’s back if she could. It was better than the idea of her out there alone and devastated.

They continue on, both of them silent and lost in their heads. Eventually Bellamy looks over and sees Clarke fiddling with the bandages on her chest. She shifts the pack on her shoulder and gasps quietly, making a face when she catches him watching. "It's nothing. Some of my hair got caught in the bandages."

"Here, let me-" he drop his pack and stops her, turning her towards him with a tentative hand on her elbow. He glances at her, checking to see if this is all right before gently brushing some of tangled strands that had fallen across her chest. They catch under the edge of the medical tape and she hisses when it pulls.

"I'm sorry." He stops immediately, pulling his hand back. He can't do anything without hurting someone. 

"No, it's my fault, I slapped these on too quickly, I need-"

"Is everything okay?" Jackson appears like he's been summoned and Bellamy automatically scans their surroundings to see if there’s anything else he's missed.

"Jackson! Can we use your medkit?" Clarke asks, dropping her pack beside his.

"Of course." Ever helpful, he’s already digging it out of his bag. "Do you need me to-"

"We're fine." Clarke cuts him off, taking the kit out of his hands. "Keep an eye on Roan, we'll be right behind you."

"Are you sure?" Jackson looks toward the column of people still heading onward and back to Clarke. "Your mom...we can wait."

"It's fine, Jackson." Clarke smiles but her tone is firm, leaving no room for argument. "Bellamy's with me. We'll be okay."

The other man hesitates for a moment, but Clarke turns to Bellamy and hands him the kit so Jackson hurries off to catch up with the rest of the group.

Clarke starts stripping off the old bandages, wincing a little as the tape peels off while Bellamy struggles to absorb the fact that not only is Clarke once again entrusting him to have her back but that Jackson is accepting it without protest. That Jackson was sure enough that _Abby_ would accept it, he didn't even feel the need to check. 

"Can you find the tape and bandages? There should be some pads and an antibacterial gel. We'll need that too."

"Right, uh. Right." Bellamy fumbles the kit open and starts digging through.

"Put some of the gel on one of the pads," she instructs when he holds the supplies out to her. "Sorry, do you mind? You have a better angle."

With no small amount of trepidation Bellamy finds himself cleaning the two deep cuts on Clarke's chest. He dabs at them as gently as he can, clearing away too few days and too many battles worth of dirt and dried blood.

A cool breeze whistles through the leaves of the trees surrounding them and he is abruptly aware of the space between them, that they’re close enough for him to feel the warmth from Clarke's skin and her soft breath on the top of his head. They’re breathing in harmony. 

His throat is as dry as the dead zone. 

"What happened?" he asks, mostly to to snap himself out of it but partially because he’s morbidly curious; the wounds are so strangely surgical.

"My m-Alie," she says, her voice soft and low. "She needed the passphrase."

He grunts in acknowledgment. "I'm sorry.” He remembers Clarke’s face, raw, horrified and panicked, when he and Murphy burst into the throne room. "I'm sorry we weren't faster."

"I'm glad you came when you did." There’s an edge in her voice he can't interpret. "My mom's okay, I'm okay. You came through."

"You’re not okay, Clarke." He crushes strips of bandages into sloppy wads. She takes them from him and hands him the medical tape, wordlessly refolding them into neat squares. He furiously rips a piece of tape off the roll. "None of this is okay. When was the last time you slept?"

"When was the last time _you_ slept?" she shoots back, sweeping her hair back and holding the refolded bandage over one of the cuts. He takes a deep breath to steady himself and starts carefully taping it down, resolutely ignoring how soft her skin feels under his fingertips.

She laughs a little as he rips another piece of tape off with his teeth. "That is so unsanitary."

"You got a better idea?" 

She falls silent as he finishes up and they start repeating the process on the other wound.

"You know once upon a time you would've finished that with 'princess'." Her tone is light but when he steps back and looks her, the smile she struggles and fails to maintain doesn’t match.

He crouches down and starts packing the supplies back into the kit to give him time to decide how to respond. "It doesn't seem to fit anymore."

"Crown too tarnished?"

"No," he shoves the kit into his bag and stands, studying at her for a long moment, struggling to put words to everything he wants to say to that. "I don't...I don't think of you like that anymore," he finally says. 

"Good.” She manages a small but infinitely more genuine smile this time. “I don’t want to be like that to you. To anyone.”

He swallows hard, shifting slightly from foot to foot. The conversation feels unfinished but he doesn't know what else to say. He grabs both their packs and swings them over his shoulder, ignoring Clarke's protest. "We should get going," he says, gesturing at the woods.

Clarke looks in the direction their people had disappeared into then down at her feet. "Yeah, I guess I should probably be in more of a hurry, shouldn't I?"

"Clarke-"

"It's fine, Bellamy.” She smiles again, weary this time and they start making their way back together. “I’m good."

 

 

*****

 

 

The rest of their hike passes largely in silence, not awkward but companionable. They’ve been apart for so long, and facing one catastrophe or another since finding their way back to each other; it was a relief just to be able to walk quietly beside Clarke without having an immediate crisis that had to be addressed for them to keep moving.

When they reach Arkadia, Bellamy heads straight for the bar after dropping their packs off at the supply room, Clarke trailing silently behind him. The dining hall is the settlement’s largest gathering place and seems like the most likely place to find everyone and check in.

In the time it's taken for them to make it home, someone has brought up the last batch of the moonshine Monty had been making in hopes the normalcy would help repair his fractured relationship with Jasper. While the moonshine hadn’t done it, it seems that something good has come out of the nightmare brought by Alie. Bellamy sees the two boys tucked away in the corner leaning on each other in a way he hadn’t seen since before Mt. Weather.

It’s jarring to see Murphy and Emori sitting one table over, watching the room with undisguised wariness. Harper stands behind the bar handing out drinks to the waiting crowd. He isn't sure if this is a special occasion or if she's been bartending off duty; he'd stopped paying attention to the bartender when it had stopped being Gina. He stands for a moment, taking in the hollow-eyed people, their grief slightly alleviated by home and alcohol, and he’s struck by the weight of the knowledge he holds. 

The world is ending; this fragile relief is as real as one of Jaha’s chips.

At the heavy thump of Raven's distinctive gait he turns, barely getting his hands up in time to grasp the two cups she thrusts at him before she throws an arm around his shoulders in a short, hard side hug.

"Go," she says, shoving off of him. "We'll catch up later. Everything's fine here and you look like you really need a drink." He lifts the second cup; two seems like a lot to start with. "I figured if you look that way Clarke probably looks just as bad."

Bellamy turns and realizes he's lost track of Clarke. A wave of panic crashes over him, raw and vicious, clawing its way up his throat on a wave of bile. He forces it back. She’s here, she wouldn't leave. Not now, not with everything they have to do.

"I think I saw her duck out and head down the east corridor." Raven studies him, her expression uncomfortably knowing. "She probably wanted to check in with Abby, figure out where she's staying."

That’s another jolt. They'd divvied up rooms when the Arkadia expansion was complete and there was no space to spare. He hates the sudden reminder that Clarke had been gone, hates the tangible proof that she hadn't had a place here, hates that this was probably the first of many reminders.

Bellamy tips his chin at Raven and takes off in the direction she'd indicated. He makes his way to Abby's quarters and stops short outside the open door. Kane sits on the edge of her bed, head bowed, his hands dangling between his legs, fists clenching and unclenching. Abby is draped over his shoulder, whispering in his ear, combing her fingers through his hair. Bellamy’s more surprised by his lack of surprise to find them together like this.

He hates to break their moment when the thing between them is so newly realized and potentially so short-lived but Clarke isn't there and his unasked for anxiety is rising. He knocks and the echo of the metal door frame against the tin cup seems unnecessarily loud.

Abby's head snaps up, her gaze darting from his face to the two cups to the space over his shoulder, sagging in a way that tells him the answer to his question before he asks. "Clarke hasn't been by?"

Abby takes a sharp breath through her nose, then another deeper one. She presses a kiss to Kane's temple and rises, coming across the room to Bellamy and stepping out into the hall.

"You haven't seen her?” Abby asks, her voice calm but the tension around her eyes gives her away; the same tell as Clarke.

"She's here." He doesn’t mean to sound so defensive. "I lost her when we came in."

Abby sighs and looks down the hall and back into the room at the man who still can't bring himself to acknowledge Bellamy. "It's fine, Abby. I'll find her."

Abby’s smile is unexpectedly warm as she lays a hand on his arm, squeezing softly. "I know you will. Thank you."

Bellamy nods, awkward and stiff, unsure of how to deal with the sincerity, and gestures towards her and Kane. "You okay here?"

Abby's face twists into a combination of smile and grimace. "Not yet, but we will be."

Bellamy ducks his head, turning before he can give any of the secret he carries away.

 

 

*****

 

 

As he walks through the cold, grey halls of the Ark he realizes he doesn't know where Clarke would go. They used to be so in sync he could predict her movements as instinctively as breathing; he didn't have to think, he'd just know. Now there's so much of her that is a stranger and he’s terrified he won't get the chance to learn her again.

Eventually Bellamy makes his way out to the yard and there she is. She's found a rake and is scraping it through the fire pit. She turns toward him at the sound of his approach, her face pale and tired. 

The moonlight glinting silver in her hair and it reminds him of the night she came back to them. The way he'd braced himself as he watched her hurry through the trees and how it still wasn't enough to protect himself from the wave of mixed emotion that crashed into him; a complicated snarl of anger, hurt, regret and relief borne on an underlying current of something so deep he'd felt it in his bones. It had taken everything he had to stop himself from staggering when she’d finally met his eyes. 

"I thought it might be good to...I didn't know if any of them had come out here since the last time we used the pit." Clarke's voice brings him back to the present and he realizes she'd been collecting the ashes into a neat pile. "My mom tried to give me...Finn once and I thought that when Octavia comes back she might want that. Raven too."

In spite of her solemn statement, his lips twitch, trying to smile. Of course Clarke would talk to him as though it was a foregone conclusion that O would be back. They may not know each other's habits anymore but they still know what the other needs to hear. He distantly wonders how he can feel so comforted by such a small thing in the face of everything, but he’s too tired to deny himself the feeling.

"Here." He thrusts one of the cups at her and she sets the rake aside to accept it. "You owe me a drink."

Clarke's answering smile is brighter than the moonlight, brighter than every shooting star he'd seen but hadn't let himself wish on while she'd been gone. 

They settle on one of the walls bordering the fire pit and tap their cups together before drinking.

As they sit in that same companionable silence from their hike, Clarke leans more and more into his side, moving slowly and gradually as though she’s testing him with each increment to see if he'll notice, if he'll move away. He lifts his arm, just as hesitantly, and wouldn't have been able to believe how quickly she tucks herself into his side of the evidence wasn't right there, warm and real, resting her head on his shoulder. He has to force himself to drop his arm around her shoulders, not totally able to believe this moment is happening, that after everything she’s here with him like this.

But the world can't be kept at bay for long and after a while Bellamy feels Clarke shift. He starts to lift his arm, assuming she means to pull away, but she makes a soft noise and buries her nose in his side, her fingers clutching her drink so hard he can see her knuckles turn white.

"What do we do when we tell them and they hate me? When they hate that I chose this?” she asks, her voice muffled.

He doesn’t hesitate. "You didn't."

Clarke makes a noise, half exasperated, half grateful, and rolls her face slightly outward so he can hear her clearly. "It was a big thing to decide for everyone, Bellamy. Too big. And I...I don't have the right to make those kinds of choices for people."

Now Bellamy pulls away from her, sets his cup down and, without fully realizing what he’s doing, slides a hand under her jaw so she'll look at him. "Clarke. It wasn't a choice, not really. The City of Light was a lie. It wasn't real."

"How are you so sure?" She peers up at him, silvery light glinting off of the wetness that’s gathered in the corners of her eyes.

"Because there isn't a reality where your mom would do that to you." He drops his gaze from hers to where he's trailed his hand down her throat to play with the tips of her hair just above the bandages they’d applied together. He stares at his fingers, unable to fully believe that he’s touching Clarke like this, that she’s leaning in instead of pulling away.

He meets her eyes again and smiles, rueful this time. "A world without pain isn't real, it's a fantasy. It's hollow. Our pain is part of who we are. We need it to remind us that it makes everything else worth it."

He didn't know until this moment, watching a single tear escape and trickle down Clarke's cheek and gently swiping it away with his thumb, how deeply he believed that, but it’s true. For all of the horrors they've lived through since crashing to Earth, for all of the things he wishes he could take back, for all of the burdens he'd never wanted to bear, without them he wouldn't have moments like this one. He wouldn't know Clarke's surprised laugh in a dimly lit bunker as she started to realize her own power; Octavia's wild joy the first time she'd ridden Helios at a gallop around the yard; the momentary peace of a singalong in the rover; the relief of an embrace on a beach.

Without Earth he wouldn't have people; he'd be back in his empty rooms suffocating in the silence and weight of having floated his mother and lost his sister. He'd be alone and would never have known the woman beside him or the friends back in the bar.

"You did the right thing," he tells her again, tucking her hair back behind her ear. "We'll tell them together."

Clarke nods and leans back against his side, wedging herself under his arm and sighing a bit as she settles in. Bellamy can't stop himself from holding her a little closer and resting his cheek on the top of her head; she doesn't move away and each of his muscles relax one by one. 

Later, after Clarke carefully scoops some of the ashes into her empty cup, Bellamy walks her back into the Ark to the chancellor's office. There's a spare couch she can sleep on until a better arrangement can be made and he thinks it would probably be good for her, after everything, to spend some time close to her mom.

When they reached the doorway, Clarke turns and looks at him for a long, inexplicably anticipatory moment; a considering, almost confused expression on her face. Then the moment passes and she rises up on her toes, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

 "Good night, Bellamy," she says, softly. "I'll see you in the morning." 

He stands for a moment longer, staring at the door she'd closed behind her after she ducked inside, his cheek tingling slightly, before he turns and heads back to his own room.

  

 

*****

 

 

The next few days pass in a haze of arguments, headaches and stress. Clarke was right, Bellamy'd known she would be; not everyone is happy with the decision she made.

They initially try to keep it quiet to prevent panic: Clarke and Bellamy stand together before Kane and Abby and related what Alie had told Clarke about the reactors and their chance for survival. After the initial wave of horror and denial have passed, Abby brings Raven in. As Sinclair's protege she’s the de facto head of engineering and they need her skills and Alie-enhanced brain if there's any possible solution to be found. 

Next they tell Jackson so he'll be alert for the first signs of any radiation poisoning. It weighs on Bellamy, on them all, to keep this a secret from everyone else. Raven argues particularly hard that the people have a right to know but in the end, the majority of their small council rules that people are still too fragile and it's better to keep the situation quiet until they have any scrap of hope to offer them.

In an ironic twist, Jaha is the one to let the secret out. No one knows exactly how he finds out but he does. During a speech in the dining hall one morning, he defiantly faces down Abby, claiming he's learned the dangers inherent of keeping information from the population and calling for an immediate election to replace Pike.

The election is held the next day; they don't have time to waste and decisions have to be made. Abby’s elected by an overwhelming landslide-- people remember who’d brought the City of Light to their doorstep and who spearheaded the founding of Arkadia-- and Jaha sullenly slinks off to lick his wounds. Bellamy hears he was seen heading out the gate in the middle of the night with a pack of stolen supplies. He can't say he’s too sad to see the former chancellor go. 

The next day, they tell Roan about the situation. The king had been crankily recovering in medical, making a sport out of terrorizing Jackson for his own amusement, and looks almost gleeful to have a concrete excuse to leave. He demands that a diplomatic delegation return with him to Azgeda immediately to organize his people and negotiate with whatever leaders the other coalition clans have left. Clarke volunteers to go and Bellamy grits his teeth but says nothing. When she comes to say goodbye she assures him she'll only be gone a week.

After they leave, Kane takes another team to go try and make contact with Luna. In a stilted conversation facilitated by the encouraging presence of Abby, Bellamy draws the older man a map and tells him what awaits when he reaches the peninsula. Kane thanks him, all the while looking at his throat instead of meeting his eyes.

To save anyone the awkwardness of suggesting Bellamy isn't necessarily a good face for a diplomatic mission, he volunteers to organize the catalogue of Arkadia's supplies before it can come up. He spends the week holed up in the engineering lab, reviewing lists to determine what they should take with them- assuming they find someplace to go- and what can be left behind. Charged by her new super brain, Raven buzzes with enough energy that it makes it hard to mope and the fact that the radio terminal is located in the corner of her workroom is something neither one of them mentions out loud.

The Arkadian council had decided to keep the fate of the flame a secret amongst themselves and Raven sets about hacking into it. Bellamy doesn't understand the details but she manages to make contact with Becca and together they create a map of the degraded reactors so they can attempt to calculate potentially unaffected areas.

The night after Raven bans him from engineering for being a nuisance- Clarke has been gone for eight days, one day longer than she was supposed to, he's handling it as well as expected- so Bellamy sits in his room studying a hastily sketched out copy of the maps she'd been working off of, her parting gift when she told him to get lost.

After the enclosed walls and limited space of the Ark, the ground had seemed so vast, he'd managed to forget how small of an area they'd actually known in the scope of an entire planet. Looking at the map and seeing the reactor locations spread across the globe drives home just how big Earth is and how many places he's read about but will never get a chance to see. More than that, he realizes how many people they have no chance of warning, that have no hope of survival; their deaths will be slow and inexplicable. Knowing what's coming won't be enough to save _anyone_ , not unless they figure out how, and even then there are still so many people they won't be able to reach.

There’s a knock on his door and everything in him relaxes when he opens it to find Clarke standing there with two small cups and a jug of moonshine held up like a peace offering.

“You’re late.” He knows by her smirk she doesn’t buy his irritated grumble.

“We ran into Kane and Luna’s group on our way back,” she says, brushing against his chest as she steps past him into the room. “We radioed in as soon as we were in range.”

“That must've been after Raven kicked me out,” he says, shutting the door. He turns and suddenly the already mildly claustrophobic space feels so much smaller; it's never had Clarke in it. 

She eyes the maps spread across the table he uses as a desk as she sets her offering down and pours them each a drink. “Find anything?”

As he takes the offered cup, they both realize at the same time the only places to sit are the lone chair at his table or the unmade bed pushed up against the wall next to it. For a moment, awkwardness is a living thing, its breath hot on the back of his neck. The feeling passes when Clarke shrugs and settles cross-legged on the bed.

Bellamy sinks into his chair-- the room is so small their knees would touch if she hung her legs over the edge of the bed-- and they tap their cups together and drink.

“So?” Clarke gestures at the maps, holding her empty cup out. He refills it and then his own.

“Maybe. Raven thinks our best chance is to go south. Out to sea would be better but without any kind of a ship we might as well try to get the Ark back in the...what?” Clarke’s smiling wider than his report warranted.

“What would our chances be like if we had a ship?” she asks, an excited edge to her question.

There’s a rising feeling in his chest and it’s so unfamiliar, it takes him a moment to realize it’s hope. “Did you find a ship?”

She smiles, manic and exhausted around the edges but still blinding. “I didn’t, but Luna did.” 

Before he knows what happened, they’re up and spinning, his arms around her waist and hers around his shoulders, laughing like giddy children. After two weeks of relentless despair any light at the end of the tunnel, regardless of how small it may turn out to be, feels like a miracle and he’s nearly delirious with relief.

As they slow to a halt, he realizes Clarke is pressed up against him, torso to torso, her mouth against his neck. He takes a jerky step back, breaking her hold. His hands fall to her waist, steadying her, before letting go entirely and he turns away to collect the cups that have fallen to the floor. 

He fumbles for a dirty t-shirt to wipe up the spilled moonshine, and peeks up her. She’s standing where he left her, a dazed expression on her face and as he watches, she takes a deep breath and shakes herself a little. She glances at him and he looks back down, giving the floor an extra pass with his improvised mop. He hears her cross behind him to the table and the clink of jug against tin as she pours a drink. He stands and turns in time to see her toss it back. She flushes and pours another, one for both of them this time.

“We shouldn’t get too excited,” she says, sinking back onto his bed. “Luna wouldn’t tell us where it was or how many people it could carry. She wants a formal alliance in place, and a plan for determining who will make the trip first.”

That’s a sobering thought. Bellamy drops back into his chair, grim reality rushing back in. Depending on what kind of a boat she has, between Luna and Arkadia alone they're most likely over capacity. That doesn’t even take into account Azgeda and whatever other clans Clarke and Roan have alerted. 

“Shit,” he says, swallowing half his cup in one go.

“Yeah.”

They both finish their drinks. Bellamy refills his and silently passes Clarke the moonshine.

“So, what do we do?”

Clarke hands the jug back, not meeting his eyes. “Roan and the other leaders start arriving tomorrow. We’re forming a council to figure everything out.”

He takes a long swig as he puts the pieces together. “I take it I’m not invited.” 

Now she looks up, her face fierce and furious. “It’s bullshit.” 

Maybe it's the moonshine, maybe it's because he’d never actually expected to be offered a seat at the negotiating table, wasn’t even sure he’d wanted one if it had been an option, but the confirmation doesn’t hurt. Instead the sight of Clarke--her jaw jutting and indignant on his behalf--loosens something in his chest and he feels warm all over.

“Stop smiling, this is serious.”

He’s grinning goofily at her, he hadn’t realized. He frowns down at his cup; it’s empty again. He pours another drink.

“Are you getting drunk?” 

“Might as well. World will still be ending tomorrow.”

Clarke stares at him. He sips his drink and stares back. She’s so pretty when she wants to fight someone.

He glares at the moonshine jug and picks it up, shaking it a little; definitely at least half empty. He holds it out to her. She stares a beat longer before sighing and holding her cup out. “Fuck it.”

“Fuck it,” he agrees, taking great care not to spill as he pours.

She laughs as he sets the jug back down with extreme precision. He wishes she could do that more often.

“How do I have a higher tolerance than you?” she asks, bemused.

“Dunno. Must’ve gone to more parties, had more practice.”

They both take deep gulps of their drinks.

“Did you see-” he swallows around a lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. He knows she would've told him already but he has to ask. “When you were out there, was there any sign of O?”

Clarke’s face fells. “No, I'm sorry.”

He nods and knocks back the rest of his cup. There isn't enough moonshine in the world to make that hurt less. But now Clarke looks sad and he doesn't want to make Clarke sad.

“Gina used to make fun of me,” he blurts. That wasn’t what he meant to say. Except now Clarke looks surprised and that’s better than sad so he decides to go with it. “She used to have to cut me off. Sometimes walk me home. That’s how we...she...we got together.”

“She thought...I guess I get, I don’t know, sloppy when I’m drunk. She thought it was funny.” The lump is back in his throat. “She had a really great laugh.”

When he looks up, Clarke is watching him closely. She’s sad again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-” 

“No!” The vehemence catches them both off guard. “No, if you want to talk about her you should. I want to know.”

Because Gina deserved to have some small chapter of her story told and because he’s tired of having parts of him Clarke doesn’t know, he finishes his drink and tells her about Gina. His voice thick, he tells her how Gina had seen the best in everything, even him. How she'd known when to let him be sad but also when she could tease him and coax a smile out. How she'd made him hope for a better future, for a time when they didn't have to fight anymore. The pained noise that escapes Clarke's throat, seemingly against her will, tells him she understands. 

When he trails off, he feels lighter, like there’d been a weight on his chest he hadn’t realized was there until it was gone. He doesn’t know how he feels about its absence but, like so many other things, it’s gone now and he can’t bring it back.

Clarke stretches out a hand toward him. He blinks at it and she wiggles her fingers like she wants something so he puts his hand in hers. Her hands are so tiny compared to his, that seems wrong somehow. She makes an exasperated sound and tugs. He staggers upright and the floor tilts a little.

“You are so bad at this,” she says, soft and fond. She grabs his other elbow, twisting and pushing until he sits down heavily on the bed next to her. 

“Bad at what?”

“Being comforted.” She leans against him and worms her fingers between his, gently stroking his palm with her thumb. He stares down at their joined hands and tries to figure out how this is his life. 

After a long silence, Clarke heaves out a huge sigh. "Lexa was...she was different...around me. Different than any of you saw her. She'd let her guard down."

"Clarke, you don't have to-"

"No, I want to. I want you to know...why I stayed. What she was like." She trails off. As he waits for her to continue, he leans his head against the top of hers. Her hair is so _soft_.

Finally, Clarke starts to talk. In fits and starts she tells him the story of a girl who had tried her hardest. Who'd been thrust into a position of power and responsibility that had demanded she'd sacrifice her humanity. Who'd cared for her people and had done her best for them even when it had meant denying herself. Who'd chosen to believe in a better world and fight for it in the end, all the while knowing it would probably get her killed. 

It’s an eerily familiar story in places, and he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. If the ground has taught him anything it's taught him time and time again that they were all doing what they thought, they hoped, would be right in the end. 

By the time she’s finished she’s crying; not dramatically but with silent, steady tears rolling down her cheeks. He wraps his arms around her and accidentally tips them over and then suddenly they’re lying on his bed. He starts to pull back but she clutches his shirt and begins to sob. He holds on to her as she shudders and wonders when was the last time she’d let herself really cry. 

Eventually she trails off, sniffling and hiccupping a bit. He loosens his grip but she doesn’t move away, only leans back far enough to lift her head up and look at him with a pitiful, almost-smile. “Sorry about your shirt.”

“It’s not blood for once.” That gets her a small step closer to real smile. She drops her head onto his arm and traces a finger around the wet spot on his chest. His skin erupts into goosebumps and he realizes they’re lying on his bed and her leg is tucked between his and he has to remind himself to breathe.

“Can I stay?” The question is so quiet at first he thinks he imagined it.

“Uh. Yes. Yeah. Of course.” He looks around the still slightly spinning room, like a second place to sleep will magically appear. There’s probably enough room on the floor and he can use his guard’s jacket as a pillow. “Do you...won’t your mom-”

She snorts. “Kane was on his way there when I grabbed the moonshine.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Did that start while I was gone?”

He thinks about it for a minute; it’s hard to focus, she’s still tracing those damn circles on his chest. “Not officially, I don’t think.”

She hums, thoughtful. “It's good, I think. She...she shouldn’t be alone forever.” 

He pulls away and sits up, her tiny protest going straight to his heart, among other places. It feels a little like a betrayal considering who they’ve been talking about but maybe, strangely, less of one than it would have before. “I’m going to go clean up. There’s, uh, if you want something to...um, something to sleep in, there’s an extra shirt on that shelf.”

She sits up and nods, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to take off her shoes and he stumbles out of the room before she can get any further. 

The buzzing lights in the communal bathroom down the hall seem impossibly loud as he splashes freezing cold water on his face and tries to pull himself together. His mouth tastes like something died in it and he realizes he didn’t bring a toothbrush when he fled. Someone's left mouthwash on the shelf and he borrows a good quarter of what’s left, pouring it directly into his mouth. He eyes his reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink, flushed and still a little frantic. He lets his head fall forward against the mirror with a thud. He takes a deep breath, then another. 

When he returns to his room, Clarke has changed into the shirt and even though she isn't tiny, it swamps her and falls halfway to her knees. The sight of her, standing in front of his bed, hair tousled, eyes puffy and _in his shirt_ undoes all of the semi-calm he thought he’d managed to gather while he was out of the room.

“Do you, um...I don’t suppose you have a spare toothbrush?” Her smile is slightly sheepish and it takes him a second to remember how to form words.

“There’s, uh...you can use mine? Or there’s mouthwash-” The words tumble out on top of each other but she’s already grabbing his off the shelf along with the little jar of Monty’s handmade toothpaste and heading out the door because apparently Clarke is okay with using his toothbrush. He checks the jug and there’s still some moonshine in it. He doesn’t think he’s drunk enough to have passed out which means this probably isn’t a dream.

When Clarke comes back, he’s kicked off his boots and stretched out on the floor, his jacket wadded up underneath his head. She stops in the doorway, a funny look on her face. “Oh. I, uh. Is that comfortable?” 

“Yeah, it’s fine.” He arches a little and his back cracks, undermining his point.

She bites her lip and fiddles with the hem of his shirt and he looks at the ceiling and tries to count the overlapping metal sheets.

“I was…” she sighs. “It was nice. Before.”

He looks back at her and she’s so nervous and hopeful and entirely sincere, he sits up and shoves the jacket away. He has a hard enough time denying her anything under normal circumstances and he isn’t going to try too hard to not share a bed with her when she’s _asking_.

He turns off the light and lets her slide in first so he’ll be between her and the door. It's already a narrow bed but with Clarke in it, it’s barely anything at all. They both lie side by side, still as statues staring up at the ceiling for a beat before Clarke mutters _fuck it_ under her breath. Then she’s rolling towards him and draping an arm around his waist and burying her face in his chest and he swears his heart stops. She nuzzles a little and he wraps one arm around her shoulders and slides the other under her head. He knows he’ll hear the quiet, content noise she makes playing in the back of his mind until the day he dies. 

He has no idea how long he lies there trying to figure out what’s happening but it’s a while after Clarke’s breathing evens out. Finally he closes his eyes and presses his nose into the top of her hair, inhaling deep and letting the smell of her, _woodsmokepinesweatClarke_ , wash over him and send him off to sleep.

 

 

*****

 

 

In the morning he wakes up alone, his head throbbing. The sinking feeling in his chest abates when he rolls over and sees the jug and sticky cups have been replaced with a clean cup of water and two pills sitting on top of a cartoon. The first frame depicts a freckled man scowling, his hair sticking out in all directions; the second shows him swallowing the pills and in the third he’s smiling, his hair still a mess but less aggressively so. 

He grins all through breakfast and doesn't even stop when Miller asks him what’s wrong with his face and tells him to stop it because he’s freaking everyone out.

 

 

*****

 

 

He has night shifts on the guard the next two nights and Clarke is tied up in council business during the day so he only catches glimpses of her in passing. He'll see her striding down the halls, most often deep in conversation with her mom and Kane but she'll always look up and smile at him; like she has the same internal radar he does that tells him when she’s near.

It’s pitiful how much faster his heart beats at each glance. It isn't like the feeling is new, he realized so long ago how he felt about Clarke he can't even say when exactly he figured it out; it’s just another fact of his life, he’s in love with Clarke Griffin and he knows now he always will be.

Before, the feeling was something he'd fought against, hadn't wanted, and then it was something he'd kept locked away so deep he'd barely think about it because he knew it would only ruin things if he let it out. Now, it felt like a shift is underway, like they’re on the edge of something he doesn't know how to avoid even if he wants to and it’s harder to bury those feelings.

On his first free day Raven drops down on the bench next to him while he’s finishing breakfast. The council has been in session since dawn, the timeline pressuring them to meet every waking moment until they can agree on a next step, so he’s surprised to see Raven out and about.

“I needed a break,” she says when he asks. “The Azgeda second is pushing hard for trial by combat and their asshole king is encouraging it like he thinks this is _funny_.” She spits the last word and glowers, stealing a piece of toast off his plate and viciously biting into it.

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, her expression turning sly. “Your girlfriend’s about to snap.”

He chokes on his drink and she smirks.

“She's not...we’re not-”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Her face turns serious. “Luna still won't tell us where the boat is but she said it’s big and in need of repair. Since we’re working on an accelerated timeline Clarke suggested we start gathering scrap metal from some of the station wreckage as soon as possible. Said you'd be a good person to organize teams.”

He flips through his mental roster of who’s on duty and who’s available to help. “If we take two of the rovers we can hit a couple sites in the next few days and load up as much as they can carry. Can we move the solar panels to the sides? It'll be easier to pile everything up on the roofs and tie it down.”

She nods, “I'll put someone on it while you get the teams together.” Then she scowls and pulls a piece of paper out of her pocket, passing it over to him. “For the record, you're both pathetic.”

He unfolds the page and it’s another cartoon. A girl with long, tangled hair sits at a table with her chin in her hand. On one side there’s a thought bubble containing the girl throttling someone he can only assume is Roan based on the icicle crown falling off his head, and on the other is a word bubble reading _good luck, I'll miss you._

He knows his expression is ridiculous from the disgusted noise Raven makes but she’s smiling a bit as she stomps off. He carefully refolds the paper and tucks it into his jacket next to the last one Clarke had drawn before heading off to organize his team.

 

 

*****

 

 

The mission takes longer than expected; one of the straps frays and a sheet of metal slides off the roof when they're getting ready to head back, taking out a solar panel, some necessary wiring and slicing up Harper’s arm on the way down. He stitches her up while the underling Raven sent with them repairs the rover. On the scale of disasters they've faced, this barely rates but it's still been enough to cost them a day and everyone is tense when they drive through the sprawling grounder encampment that has sprung up around Arkadia.

The mood inside isn't much better. As Bellamy walks a protesting Harper to medical, he takes in a lot of somber faces and the crowd around the bar is denser than usual.

When he makes it back to his room, Clarke is sitting on his bed, her eyes closed and head tipped back against the wall. At the sound of the door she scrambles up and though a relieved smile flashes across her face, it fades quickly and all he can see is deep shadows and weariness.

“What happened?” He drops his pack and braces himself.

Her shoulders sag as she sighs, sinking back down onto the edge of his bed. “The council came to an agreement. We’re making a list of necessary personnel and all other space will be filled by lottery.”

His mind goes blank for a moment before the ramifications of her statement start creeping in. A lottery means families torn apart, good people chosen by chance to stay behind and die. No wonder the bar was so crowded.

“How many?”

She grimaces. “Two thousand. Maybe more. It's an old cargo ship and there are some shipping containers stacked on the deck that may be stable enough to work as housing.”

At last count they had over five thousand people to save and those are just the ones they’d known of, it looks like more have arrived since then. “That’s…” He can't finish the sentence. 

She closes her eyes, leaning back against the wall and looking like she’s aged several lifetimes. He sits down next to her and she curls into him, inhaling deep.

“Luna demanded passage for all of her people.”

Bellamy isn't surprised. The sea queen held the trump card and he hadn't thought she seemed like the kind of person to waste it. “How many is that?”

“Two hundred. Each clan gets fifty essentials, so that’s another six hundred and fifty. I, uh. I made sure Octavia was on that list. If anyone asks she's part of the guard now.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulder and presses a kiss against the top of her head, more grateful than he can express with words. 

“Who else?”

“My mom, Kane, Jackson, some guards. A group from Farm Station and engineering, we’re going to need their skills. As many of the original hundred as I could get on the list.” She laughs bitterly. “Sometimes it’s good to be the princess.” She pauses for a beat, “you and me.”

He nods, staring at nothing. They have over a thousand people in Arkadia alone. People who’ve done nothing, _nothing_ , except try not to die. People with no body count, no genocide, no slaughter. How is he supposed to get on the boat knowing that? 

“I’m essential?” The question slips out, surprising him. He didn't mean to say anything.

Clarke sits up so fast the bed screeches away from the wall. “Of _course_ you are.”

“Why? Because you need me?” The words sound ugly, like he’s throwing them in her face. He supposes he is, but not in a personal way. He just can’t reconcile trading his life for someone else’s.

“Yes!” Her disbelief is too much. Suddenly his skin is buzzing, his shoulders tense and he can’t look at her. He doesn’t understand how _she_ can’t understand that he doesn’t- couldn’t- want this. He shoves up off the bed and starts to pace, thoughts spiraling and the scope of everything is steadily pressing down on his lungs until he can barely breathe. 

“It’s not enough Clarke.” Her face crumples and he curses. “No, not- not like that. If it were just you and me and the others, like it was before, it could be enough. But this is bigger. This is other people, people who have just as much, more of a right to live than I do and I can’t take a spot just because I’m...whatever I am to you.”

His mouth snaps shut in horror. It’s the most directly either one of them has ever spoken to the other about the thing between them. For a second his anxiety ramps up into total panic and he’s in freefall, terrified he’s gone too far, but Clarke is already speaking.

“No, Bellamy. It’s not just- Yes, I need you. I need you to help me, to have my back, to be my friend, to, to...it’s not just that. You need to know that you matter? Look around!” She gestures around the tiny room and seems to realize it wasn’t conveying the intended weight of her point and she glares like the metal walls are sentient and intentionally letting her down.  

“This place- don’t pretend you aren’t just as much a part of it as my mom or Kane. She told me what you did while I was gone. How you stepped up and took care of everybody, how you helped her figure out the boundaries and organized people into work teams to build this place and watched all of their backs while they did. You kept everybody safe and helped make them a home. You’re just as much a part of Arkadia as she is, as Kane is, as anyone you can accept as _essential_.” 

She snarls the last word like it offends her. Even now, in this moment, this fight, he’s struck by how radiant she is with her cheeks flushed, eyes stormy and jaw set; livid at the idea that he can’t see himself as a thing worth saving. He’s a lost cause and he briefly wonders why he keeps fighting it.

“Clarke, I-”

“It wasn’t me, okay?” Clarke cries, wild and frantic. “It was Kane. Before I could put you on the list he’d already done it. You were the first name he wrote down.”

The urge to fight abruptly drains out of him, leaving him hollow. Kane still can’t bring himself to look at Bellamy directly and he’d thought it was because the older man was so ashamed of what he’d become. The thought that Kane finds him important enough to put him on the list before anyone else is a concept he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with.

“Right, so. It wasn’t _just_ because of whatever you are to me.” Her tone matches the stiffness in her shoulders as she stands and walks past him. He scrubs a hand down his face and catches her by the elbow as she reaches the door.

“Clarke, wait.” She stops, her muscles tense under his touch but she waits and he scrambles to come up with the words to explain himself, to make her see this isn't about her, about them.

“When you- before, before all of this,” he waves a hand around the room, hoping the gesture encompasses not just them as they are now but Arkadia and how far they’d come since the dropship. “When you told me...when you believed in me. It wasn’t...no one’s ever believed in me like that before. Octavia did, sort of, but she didn’t have anyone else to, to reference, I guess, except for our mom but...it was different, with you. It was everything.”

At that Clarke turns, her eyes wide and liquid. “Bellamy-” 

“No, just, wait. Let me finish.”

She closes her mouth and tilts her head in acknowledgment and he lets his hand fall as she steps away from the door.

“I tried so hard to be who you thought I was because that’s who I wanted to be but it wasn’t...it wasn’t real. When you left-” He takes a deep breath, tunneling his hands through his hair. He doesn’t know how to say this.

“When you left, I fell apart. It wasn’t your fault, I didn’t...I didn’t know how to hold on to that. I kept telling myself that I was doing the right things but then they weren’t and I don’t know when I crossed that line because it kept seeming like the right thing up until it was _our_ people, yours and mine, caught in the crossfire. And that makes me think I don’t know if I ever crossed the line, that maybe I was always on that side of it and I just convinced myself I wasn’t for awhile.” 

He holds up a hand, warding off her protest before she can make a sound. If he doesn’t finish this now, he doesn’t know if he ever will. 

“The thing is, if I don’t know, how do I...how can I be that guy? How can I be anything other than a monster if I don’t know what the limit is? And, if that’s true, then how can someone like me be more valuable than someone who knows where that line is?”

At that, he drops his hand and slumps down on the edge of the bed. Clarke stands for a minute, studying him, before crouching in front of him. She takes his hand and looks up into his eyes and he remembers the last time they’d been like this, their positions reversed and he’d handcuffed her to a table; had thought _that_ was the right thing to do.

“Bellamy, the fact that you’re asking yourself those questions is what makes you that guy. You do what you have to do to take care of our people but you keep asking yourself if it was right and that matters. Yes, you’ve gone too far, but so have I, so have all of us. You know it and you’ll do better the next time.”

She squeezes his hand as her words start coming faster. “But there has to _be_ a next time. We can’t take back our mistakes but we can keep going when we have the chance and make them worth something by learning from them.”

She reaches up and cups his cheek and he leans into her hand and closes his eyes. She’s right but she’s also wrong, there has to be a point where he’s gone too far and doesn’t get another chance or all of it stops meaning anything at all.

“It’s not fair, okay?” He opens his eyes and she’s staring at him, gaze imploring and so, so blue. “None of this is fair but it is what it is and we need you. _I_ need you but you’re right, this is bigger than you and me. If you go, someone else stays. But who knows how many of us you’ll save if you’re with us.”

He nods slowly and his head aches; he feels empty of something vital. He knows what Clarke is saying is important, possibly even true, but it feels as far out of reach as the stars and the life they left behind.

Clarke stands slowly and pushes his jacket back off his shoulders. She sets it aside and kneels in front of him to take off his boots. He sits, limp and still, and lets her because he has nothing left in him right now. She turns to his shelves and grabs the shirt that still smelled like her the morning before he left and he looks away while she changes. After a moment she turns the light off and she’s back, reaching hesitantly for his belt, her eyes flicking up to his face like she isn’t sure if this is okay. He stands and she slides it out of the loops and shoves his pants off, holding his arm to steady him as he steps out of them.

Then her hands are on his shoulders, guiding him down onto the bed and this time, when she crawls in beside him, he’s the one who curls into her. Her hands are in his hair, rhythmically smoothing it back, letting her nails scratch lightly against his scalp and eventually he’s lulled to sleep by the sound of her breathing and her heart, steadily beating against his ear.

 

*****

 

After that night, there’s a strange, new tightrope between them that they’re both trying to figure out how to cross. Clarke seems to consider the matter of him leaving with them settled and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her he still isn’t entirely at ease with it. He rolls all of the things Clarke said over and over in his head and can see the logic but it still isn’t enough to make him feel better about it.

As the departure date draws nearer, the days settle into a routine. He’ll run salvage to the coast and help with the repairs, often staying out there for a night or two before heading back to Arkadia. He has to leave at odd hours and take winding, roundabout ways to get to the makeshift shipyard. There isn't much that can be done to disguise rover tracks but the council thinks it's best to keep the location of the boat as much of a secret as possible, so he and his teams do what they can to lay false trails.

He’s constantly alert for any sign of Octavia. She must have heard of the exodus--as people had started calling it--by now. More and more Grounders are arriving every day; so many they had to set up a perimeter and turn them away--a number of brutal, bloody fights had broken out but it helped some of the more aggressive warriors work off some pent up energy and that was necessary for peace in the camp--but so far any word of her has yet to make it back to Arkadia. With each passing day he grows a little more panicked, a little more despairing, but he shuts it down as much as he can. He has work to do and he’s no help to anyone if he's focusing on something so wildly outside of his control.

If this is what growing as a person feels like he hates it.

For the most part Clarke stays behind when he leaves; the council has transitioned into a bureaucratic organization and requires all hands on deck; the exodus involves a staggering amount of coordination and compromise. They're holding off on the lottery until as close to their actual departure as possible. The prevailing rationale is that people will be more inclined to cooperate and pitch in if they think they have a chance to survive.

Bellamy hates the heartless calculation behind that decision but he’d given up his right to any kind of a persuasive opinion when he’d given up the small amount of authority he’d held. It helps that Clarke hates it too. She heatedly argues against the motion but in the end the majority rules against her. That's a drinking night and that time she gets drunk, raving into the night about necessary evil, disgust a thick coat on every word. He’s pretty sure she's too drunk to remember how he watched her, his heart all over his face because gods, _gods_ , he loves her.

On the nights he’s back in Arkadia, she always finds her way to his room. He works through salvage and repair schedules and she vents about whatever thing the council is hung up on at a given time. Though she’s still officially staying with Abby, more often than not she ends up spending the night. His heart still skips a beat every time she burrows into him but he’s getting used to it.

He’s also started taking cold showers every night he’s home and jerking off in the narrow, shoddily constructed stalls when he’s alone before coming to bed.

That night, she’s pacing around, incensed by some of the debates around spatial allotment and he’s sitting on his bed, having finished everything he could do that night and reveling in the luxury of just watching her.

“Trikru is demanding to bring their horses. Horses! They don't understand why we need an entire plot on the deck for mature plants when we could just take seeds. It's so short-sighted. We don't know what we’ll find and if we’ll be able to grow anything right away and if we’ll even have any food left over.” Frustrated, she drags a hand through her hair, frowning when her finger get caught in the tangled length she hasn't dealt with yet. 

He motions her over, scooting aside to give her room.

“And if we let them bring their horses then everyone would want to bring horses and do you have any idea how much room a horse needs?” She settles on the bed next to him and he turns slightly so he can start picking through the knots in her hair. 

“On the other hand they'd be a good source of manure.”

“Shut up,” she grumbles, letting her head fall forward.

She sits quietly while he gently works his fingers through snarl after snarl. In spite of the mess, the strands are still silken and the heat from her head radiates through his palms and up his arms, zinging through his whole body. With every breath, his body relaxes as he inhales that _woodpinesmokesweatClarke_ scent that has come to mean home more than any other. How perfectly ironic that he’s found the one place he feels content so close to the end.

"I need to just hack it all off," she mutters while he works his way through a particularly stubborn knot; it takes him a second to realize she means her hair, not the horses. "It's all dead at the ends, that's why it gets so tangled."

"Why don't you?"

"It was-" she pauses. "There was never any time."

"You have time now."

She laughs a little, throaty and low and his cock twitches but he ignores it; he’s been used to that for awhile. "You want to cut my hair, Bellamy?"

His hands slow to a halt. It isn't that he can't, he's been cutting Octavia's hair her entire life, but they've been drifting steadily closer and her question feels heavy, like there could be more to it than just a haircut. 

"I, uh-" His throat closes so he clears it and tries again. "Do you want me to?"

"Of course." Her voice is soft and sure and he’s undone. It’s stupid, being so awed by something as trivial as Clarke trusting him to cut her hair, but apparently there is no limit to how stupid he can be over her.

In an inexplicable way it’s almost easier to accept her trusting him in a life or death situation, he can mostly make sense of it when she has no other options. But something like this, nights like these, when she can easily find someone else to turn to are different. He doesn’t know if he would ever get used to this even if he has the chance to try.

"Okay." He detangles his hands and rises, heading towards the shelves where he keeps his things. "Grab the chair and put it in the light."

His hands shake slightly as he digs through the medkit he keeps stocked for emergencies, looking for the scissors he’d added after they came back from Polis. He rolls his eyes, it’s just a haircut and he’s ridiculous.

He finds the scissors and takes a deep breath. This is just like back on the Ark with Octavia bouncing in her seat, impatient for something- anything- new. But when Bellamy turns back around, Clarke is seated in the center of the room, the curtain of her hair shadowing her face as she looks down at her hands.

This is nothing like Octavia, this is Clarke and he’s a disaster. 

He moves around behind her, running his hands over her head. "How short do you want it?" He asks, cursing himself for the hushed, almost reverent tone in his voice. 

As he gathers her hair, his knuckles brush against the back of her neck and she shivers, her voice husky and a little breathless when she responds. "Um- short. A bit above my shoulders, maybe?" 

He hums in agreement and sets to work, separating out locks and cutting off the ragged length. She sighs and her shoulders visibly relax as the weight falls away. He works carefully but quickly, longing to draw the moment out but unable to bear it if he did. The room is silent save for the snip of the scissors, the barely audible shush of her hair hitting the floor and the rhythm of their breathing in unison.

Bellamy circles around to face her so he can even out the front and his concentration nearly shatters when, without a word, Clarke spreads her legs so he can step in close. His pulse pounds like thunder in his ears, almost drowning out the sound of her breath, coming faster now. Her thighs radiate warmth on either side of his knees.

It takes every ounce of his control to keep his hands steady and stay focused on his task and not the woman holding perfectly still beneath him. The back of his hand caresses her cheek and she draws in a sharp breath, as loud as a gunshot in the weighted silence.

His control wavers and he glances down.

Clarke's eyes are half closed, her lashes long and casting shadows across the tops of her cheekbones. He nearly groans when her tongue darts out, wetting her lips. He’s so close he can feel the heat of her skin against his chest. They've been closer before, they’ve been sleeping together on and off for weeks for fuck’s sake, but it hasn’t been like this; time hasn’t slowed down so that he can fully feel every excruciating second of it, can feel the edge of that unavoidable something he maybe thought they're about to tumble into.

He’s half hard and this is going to be embarrassing if he doesn't finish soon. 

At last the final strands drop away and he steps back, letting out a long breath and setting the scissors down on the table behind him. Clarke grins at him--bright and crooked--and shakes her head, her smile widening at the freedom of movement. His chest aches at the sight of her, gleefully running her hands through the short, tousled waves. There are so few things left that make her smile like that, happy and free, and the knowledge he can give her one unmoors him.

He glances around the room, struggling to stop staring, unable to resist for long. "I, uh, I don't have a mirror."

Her smile deepens, warm and sure. "I don't need one, Bellamy. I trust you."

He's lost all control of himself and knows his expression gives away too much for him to ever take back but there’s nothing he can do to hold off the tide of feeling washing over him and dragging him under. The moment stretches out, the air practically shimmering around them, and then Clarke stands, moving slow like she also feels the weight of each heartbeat. An emotion he's never seen on her before blooms across her face. 

He breathes in.

She steps closer. She’s right in front of him, looking up at him through her lashes. Her eyes dart back and forth, meeting his then flicking to his mouth and her expression is starting to look like wonder.

He breathes out.

Now her wide eyes lock on his and he’s drowning in the deep blue. She raises a hand and traces a finger down his cheek, the movement slow and deliberate. Bellamy's entire body is alight, his blood singing in his veins. It’s an absurd thought but as she closes the space between them he swears he hears hers matching the song.  
  
Then her lips touch his and he’s lost. The world collapses like a dying star, a supernova of sensation imploding and he’s overwhelmed by _woodsmokepinesweatClarke_. With a groan as aching and raw as an exposed wound he cups her face and surrenders into this moment that feels as inevitable as it had always seemed impossible.  
  
His pulse shouts _Clarke, Clarke, Clarke_ as her mouth opens and he slides his tongue along hers. Her arms band around his back, fingers digging into the muscles in his shoulders, pulling him closer. He feels her heart beating against his chest and wonders if she can feel his too.

She leans into him and he staggers back, the cold metal edge of the table pressing into the back of his thighs. He breaks her hold on him as he hooks an arm around her waist, spinning them around and lifting her up, sweeping the whatever was scattered on the table to the floor and setting her on the edge of it.

He drops his mouth to her jaw kissing and licking his way to nip at the hollow under her ear as her legs come up and hook around his thighs and she presses herself against him. All the blood left in his head rushes south so fast he loses track of gravity for a second and an involuntary growl makes its way out of his throat when her hips buck up against his.

The sound stops them short and they pull away, just enough to look at each other, wild-eyed and panting. Clarke’s pupils are blown wide, the blue a thin ring around the edges.

“I-” Bellamy has no idea what to say, he can barely even think. He’s pretty sure if someone asked him his name it would take him a minute to answer. 

“What is this?” He finally forces out. A part of him doesn't want to ask, is scared of the answer, but he has to know.

She smiles and frames his face with her hands. “This is us. Finally.” She seems to realize he needs more and continues, “I- I'm always waiting, until it's too late. I don't want to do that with you.”

That, he understands. They have a finite number of chances to fall into the thing between them and he doesn't want to die knowing he turned away from it when he had the chance. He leans in and kisses her softly, letting her taste wash over him as she threads her fingers through his hair and slants her mouth underneath his to deepen the kiss.

His hands rest lightly on her waist and his thumbs brush over the ridge of her hip bones. Then her legs tighten and pull him closer and he can feel the warmth of her pressed against him between the layers of their clothes. He's harder than he can ever remember being and his hands clench when she moans, her hands running down his chest to the hem of his shirt and she's tugging it up and he lets go of her so she can pull it off.

She stares at his chest for a moment, dazed, her fingers brushing lightly over the skin of his belly and the muscles jump involuntarily at the brief contact. Then her arms are around his waist and she's crushing herself against him tilting her head up and into another deep, bruising kiss. He slides his hands under her shirt and up across warm skin and curves, brushing against the sides of her breasts and he wants her, wants this, so much he can't think, can't breathe, can only feel.

She breaks the kiss and his lips chase hers but she pulls back further and smiles. Then she pushes him back lightly and slides down off the table before grabbing the hem of her shirt and pulling it up over her head and tossing it aside.

The sight of her, pale and perfect, in her serviceable Ark-issue bra and low-slung pants burns into his brain and before he knows it, he's reaching for her because now that they've started he doesn't know how they'll ever stop. She grabs him by his belt, twisting them and leaning back so they tumble onto his bed. He cracks his head against the wall when they go down and she makes a noise, half laugh, half concern, but he barely even notices because now he's pressing her into the mattress and his lips and tongue and teeth are on her collarbone, her chest, the valley between her breasts and her salty sweet skin is the best thing he's ever tasted.

Her fingers are fumbling with his belt and she arches her back to give him access when he reaches around behind her to unclasp her bra. When he gets it off he has to stop and pull back, looking down at her and taking her in. Her skin is flushed, her eyes are dark, the newly shorn strands of her hair are sticking to the side of her face and she's the most beautiful thing he's seen in his life.

Clarke uses the moment to yank his belt out of the loops, smiling triumphantly because she will never not seize a victory if she has a shot at one and he knows he will never love anyone like he loves her. 

Her hands go to the button in his pants and she's undoing it and sliding them down along with his briefs and he can barely hold it together enough to do the same to hers. They wiggle out of the rest of the rest of their clothes, laughing together as they get stuck on their boots in their rush.

When there's nothing between them, their laughter dies out as they take each other in. She's smooth and round and he thinks she might be glowing. He wants to learn every part of her.

He drops his head to her breast and swirls his tongue around her nipple, sucking lightly as she moans and arches into him, clasping the back of his head. He slips a hand down and _gods_ she's so hot and soft and _wet_ . He starts to slide lower- he wants to taste her so bad his mouth aches with it- but she pulls him back up and whispers _later._

Bellamy braces an arm on either side of her head and hovers over her. Clarke reaches down and wraps a hand around him and for a split second he thinks it's going to be over right there but then she’s aligning them and he's sinking into her and everything is _hotsoftwetClarke_ and every remotely coherent thought leaves his head all at once.

They still and he drops his forehead to hers.

He breathes in.

She breathes out.

Then he pulls almost all the way back out and snaps his hips into hers. She gasps and brings her legs up, locking them around his waist and digging her heels into his ass as he does it again and again. She wraps her hands around his arms, her nails digging into his biceps with each thrust, her mouth falling open as her eyes flutter shut.

He ducks his head down to kiss her and she rises up to meet him, catching his bottom lip between her teeth and biting just enough to drive him more out of his mind than he already is. He increases the tempo and she matches him and they move smoothly together, falling into an instinctive rhythm; partners in this as they are in everything else.

When her cunt starts to clench around him, he reaches down and finds her clit, tracing his thumb in frantic circles over it. Clarke moans and bites his neck and he scrambles for the threads of any control he can manage, holding on and sending her flying over the edge. She cries out his name and he buries his face in her hair and lets himself go, pounding into her with no finesse whatsoever. He comes so hard his vision goes white and when he comes back to himself, she’s gone boneless and he’s chanting her name against her temple. 

They lie there for a moment, catching their breath and then Bellamy rolls off of her, almost falling off the edge of the bed. The bunks really aren’t made for two but it’s perfect, this is perfect, she’s perfect. He restablizes himself and Clarke drapes herself across him, resting her head over his heart. Time stops as they hold each other and just breathe.

Eventually she climbs off of him, finding the shirt that’s become hers and tossing him his pants. They run down the hall to the bathroom, giggling and shushing each other, and clean themselves off.

When they get back to his room, he hesitates, should he sleep in his pants? Change into his briefs? He doesn’t know what the rules are now. But Clarke strips off the shirt and tosses it aside so he shucks them off and crawls into bed behind her. The last thing he thinks before he drifts off to sleep, wrapped around her skin to skin and his nose buried in her hair, is how unspeakably lucky he’s been to have known her at all.

 

 

*****

 

 

After that night, it’s as though the Earth is conspiring to keep them apart. He'll go out to the shipyard while she’s tied up at Arkadia. When he returns, she'll be on her way out. As the exodus day draws nearer, more and more hands on organization is required at the dock. 

Bellamy isn't sure if it's a blessing or a curse that their paths cross so rarely. They steal moments when they can- one night she slips into the shower behind him with a few minutes to spare before she’s required somewhere else and he presses her up against the wall, driving into her from behind as the flimsy metal creaks and shudders with every thrust, covering up her increasingly breathy moans- but never anything substantial.

He's shamefully glad. With each passing day it's harder and harder not to tell her what he thinks he's deciding, what he's realized as the end creeps closer. But he's a monster and now a coward so he forcibly holds back the torrent of words that threaten to spill over every time he sees her.

He knows he should tell her. There are so many things he should tell her. 

And then all of a sudden he's out of time.

Two days before the exodus, the council announces the names--chosen as randomly as they could manage--that will take part. As Bellamy takes in the despairing faces of those that will be left behind, he knows what he has to do.

Clarke and Abby head down to the shipyard immediately after to oversee the last few details that need to be taken care of before they can depart and Bellamy goes to see Kane in the chancellor’s quarters. 

The older man is indescribably grave as Bellamy lays out his decision. When he finishes, Kane closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. Then he rises and crosses over to where Bellamy stands, hunched and ragged but also relieved to have finally given voice to the things that have been weighing on him ever since he’d heard of the lottery; longer than that, if he's honest. 

Kane lays a heavy hand on his shoulder and looks him in the eye. In the voice of a person who understands this struggle he says, “The hardest thing in this world is to live in it.”

Bellamy’s eyes burn because he knows, he _knows_. He knows how hard it is to keep going, he knows he's a coward and he's giving up but he just can't find a way to reconcile living at the expense of someone else anymore.

“Is there anything I can do to change your mind?” Kane asks, his voice thick and face resigned; they've been here before and he knows the answer.

Bellamy shakes his head, the lump in his throat too solid to speak around.

Kane nods, slow and solemn, and then to Bellamy’s amazement, wraps his arms around him and pulls him close. He wonders if this is what it’s like to have a father and immediately shuts the thought down because this is already too hard.

“I'm so, so sorry,” Kane says in Bellamy’s ear and he knows it's about so much more than his decision as he hugs the man back.

“It's okay,” he says, not the only one with tears in his eyes.

When he returns to his room, he looks around the small, cold space. He sees Clarke’s t-shirt crumpled at the foot of his bed; she's been sleeping there while he's been gone and the room smells like her. He marvels at how much one person’s presence can change a space. 

There's nothing left for him to do but wait so he sits at his table, staring at nothing and tries to figure out a way brace himself for what's coming.

He wonders where Octavia is. He tries not to wonder where Octavia is.

Bellamy hears Clarke’s footsteps racing down the hall before the door slams open, the crash of it hitting the wall echoing through the room loud enough that he winces.

“What the _fuck_ , Bellamy!”

He doesn't think he's ever seen her so furious. She’s a goddess of war, hair a golden, burning halo around her head, ready and willing to lay waste to anyone in her way.

_“How could you?”_

He knew this was coming, knew there was only so long he could put it off before his reckoning but had somehow convinced himself it wouldn’t be this hard.

“Clarke, I-”

“Shut up.” She yanks her hands through her hair. “God, I can’t even- I can barely look at you." 

But she does and he sees the rage is a brittle shell that's starting to crack. He can see the fathomless hurt behind it and he's in agony.

He can’t do this. He has to do this.

“How can you- after…” Her voice breaks as she trails off. He stands to go to her but her hand shoots up, a feeble shield to ward him off. His hands dangle helplessly at his sides.

“I have to, Clarke. I-” He has to make her understand that this is the only thing, that it’s not about her, that it’s better this way. “You were right, everything you said about making second chances matter but I’m- I can’t- I’m not strong enough. I'm not that person, Clarke. I can't be, not even for you. I can’t live like this anymore, knowing my life cost someone else’s.” 

His voice breaks. “I’m so tired of having this much blood on my hands.”

He sinks back onto the bed, a puppet with strings cut and nothing left to offer.

She looks down and her chest heaves, heaves again. “And what about me? What about- What about the blood on my hands?” Her chin snaps up and her face is a tragic echo of the fire she'd blazed with moments before. “How is it okay for me to go when you can’t?” 

He gapes at her, “You’re- Clarke. You...you always keep going. You keep fighting when I can’t.” He doesn’t understand how she doesn't know what he sees so clearly. “You are so much stronger than me.”

Even if he lived a thousand years he would never be as bitter as her ragged laugh.

“Right. I keep going. Everyone I love dies and I keep fucking going.”

His entire world stops. 

“What?”

She sneers but it's not directed at him. “I guess I waited until it’s too late one more time.”

There’s that impossibly bitter laugh again.

“There it is, Bellamy. I love you. And you’re staying here to _die_.”

She breaks at the end and her entire body caves in as she starts to sob. There’s no power on the planet that could’ve stopped him from going to her in that moment. He holds on to her tighter than anything he’s ever held before and she clutches his shirt in her fists, pushing him away and pulling him closer in equal measure.

They sink to the floor and she’s sobbing _how could you how could you how could you_ and all he can say is _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ as he holds her and his existence struggles to rewrite itself around this thing he’d never even considered, it seems so impossible. 

After an eternity her sobs subside and she falls silent, her body limp. She scoots away from him to sit against the wall, unable to stand, unable to stay near him. Her head falls back with such a heavy thud it has to hurt but she doesn’t seem to notice.

For a long moment neither one of them says anything.

Then, so small and broken it cuts right to his core she says, “I thought we were starting something and you were saying goodbye.”

He knows his heart has shattered because he can feel the jagged shards as the breath rushes out of him. She’s right and he’d had no idea.

“I didn’t know.” His voice is a ghost.

She won’t look at him. “Would it have changed anything if you did?”

For a moment he wavers. He wants it to, he wants it to change his mind so badly his entire self burns with it. But then he remembers who he is and what happened the last time he let Clarke change his mind and he knows that he can’t.

It’s the worst, most painful irony he can conceive of. She loves him and he loves her and it doesn’t matter because he’s not the person he needs to be to fix this. He can’t tell her because not even he is that much of a monster and if she never knows he can’t hurt her anymore than he already has.

When he says nothing, she closes her eyes. “Didn’t think so.”

“I wish it did,” he whispers.

Now her laugh is thick and closer to a sob. “Where's a scrap metal rocket flare when you need one?”

“Clarke-” 

“What, Bellamy?” She finally looks at him and her face is older than the sea. “What else is there to say? You’re you and I'm me and we’re a tragedy. That's all there is.”

She struggles to her feet and when she stands the armor is back, sliding piece by piece into place until it’s like the real Clarke was never there to begin with. “I have work to do.”

And she leaves him, sitting alone on the floor, hating himself more than he could ever imagine.

 

 

*****

 

 

The next day dawns and he drags himself out into the yard to help with the final preparations. Arkadia and the surrounding valley is mostly deserted. They’d been ready for people to react violently when the results of the lottery were announced but it seems as though the fight had gone out of everyone along with the last of their hope. There’d been a few scuffles and he’s heard some throats were cut and lottery tokens stolen, but most people have slipped off, in groups or alone, to embrace their fate. 

As he shuts the rear door to one of the last rovers, Raven is there, glaring at him. 

“You’re really doing this.” It isn’t a question but he nods all the same.

She studies him for a minute and shakes her head before suddenly throwing her arms around him and hugging him hard.

“Idiot,” she says, clinging to his neck. He hugs her back. He’d spent the night rehearsing what he’d say to everyone but now the words are gone.

Raven breaks away and turns him around and there they all are, the remaining delinquents save one. He stares and Miller, Monty, Jasper, Harper and even Murphy stare back.

There’s nothing he can say to them.

Jasper snaps first. The gangly boy flings himself at Bellamy so hard he staggers back. Then the rest of them are piling on, Murphy hanging back for a second before rolling his eyes and joining in, and if Bellamy weren’t already broken this would’ve done it.

Over their shoulders, he sees Clarke watching them from across the yard. She turns away when she sees him looking.

Then time speeds up. Suddenly everything is packed and the last of the exodus are climbing into their vehicles and driving out one by one. Bellamy watches them go and feels like everything he loves in the world is leaving too, everything except the person who’d already left him when all of this started.

He drifts aimlessly around the yard and into the Ark, completely at a loss for what to do with himself.

He remembers his copy of _The Illiad_ , sitting on his shelf, set aside until he could look at it without it breaking his heart.

He doesn't have any heart left to break so he might as well catch up on his reading. 

His laugh sounds like sobbing echoing down the empty halls.

Time passes and he barely notices but he realizes the shadows have lengthened when he hears someone yelling _hello_ from the direction of the loading bay.

Wild, impossible hope takes flight in his chest as he runs towards the sound, only to crash and burn as he bursts through the doors to find Niylah--of all people--backlit in the open bay doors.

She says something in Trigadesleng that he doesn't quite catch, doesn't know if he'd understand if he did, but the unexpected relief in her voice doesn't require translation.

“We thought everyone was gone.”

“We?” There's that impossible hope again, beating like a caged bird against his rib cage as he cautiously walks closer.

She heads back into the yard and when he follows he sees Indra, her torso swathed in bloody bandages, tied to the back of a horse, glaring at him like she dares him to say something about the indignity of it all. 

“We were traveling with Octavia when we were set upon by a band of nomads. They realized she was skaikru and thought to trade her for passage aboard the ship.” Under normal circumstances he’d be impressed with how even Indra’s voice is given the obvious pain she’s in but as it is all he can hear is _Octavia Octavia Octavia_.

He forces himself to focus when Indra continues. “I would have slaughtered them all but this one,” she tips her head towards Niylah who rolls her eyes, “has a weak stomach.”

“She’d been nearly gutted and was bleeding out everywhere, it was all I could do to stop the bleeding and get her on the horse.”

Indra snorts and looks away. The horse bends to nibble at a patch of grass at its feet. Bellamy’s entire body vibrates, adrenaline surging under his skin, O is out there and he can find her. 

Niylah’s still speaking and he forces himself to listen. “We were hoping to arrive before everyone left, Indra needs more help than I can give her.” She glances around. “So does your sister. Once the nomads realize they’re too late, they’ll likely slit her throat.”

Bellamy is two steps back into the loading bay, intent on grabbing the rifle and supplies he’d been left, before he forces himself to stop.

“They left,” he eyes the shadows, trying to guess how much time he’d lost, “not long ago. Can you gallop?” Niylah looks to Indra who glares like that shouldn’t even be a question. “Then you can probably still catch them. If you head east, you’ll see the tracks.” The final convoy was planning to head straight to the dock, there was no point in hiding anymore.

“Thank you.” Niylah moves to mount the horse. “The nomads were camped at old TonDC, you’ll find them between here and there.”

When she’s astride and sure Indra is secure behind her, she leans to gather the reins but Bellamy stops her with a tentative hand on her wrist. 

“Is there anything you need to get there?” he asks, wanting to say he’s sorry again, to both of them, but not knowing how.

She smiles slightly down at him, inclining her head like she understands. “We have everything we need. Good luck to you Bellomi kom skaikru.”

Indra gives him a slow, imperious nod and they’re off, kicking up dust as they take off out of the yard.

Now Bellamy flies through the halls of the Ark, the heavy thud of his boots making the walls ring. He scrambles into his room, sliding a little on the turn and grabs his empty pack off the table. He sweeps the medkit into it and turns in a circle, frantically searching for anything else he may need.

He freezes when he sees a cup sitting on his table, a makeshift lid of what looks like a thin sheet of tin crudely hammered into the right shape. He picks it up and sees _Linkon_ etched into the top and if he didn't have to get to O he would've collapsed right there.

He grabs his jacket from the hook by the door, swinging it over his shoulders and tucks the jar carefully into his pocket, crinkling the papers still nestled in there. The space where his heart had been aches.

Bellamy sets his jaw and shuts aside untold lifetimes of regret, shoulders the rifle and the pack and he’s out the door, heading to the supply room to see if he’d been left any bullets, his mind already racing through the woods to Octavia.

He bursts back into the loading bay, so focused on what’s to come he makes it most of the way to the exterior door before skidding to a halt.

There’s a horse in the yard.

Clarke is in the doorway.

“I guess it was a good idea to let the trikru bring some of their horses, it was easier to steal one of them than a rover.”

His mind is a stalled engine turning over and over and not quite catching as he struggles to make sense of what’s right in front of him.

“What-”

“Miller yelled at me.” She’s backlit by the setting sun so he can’t see her clearly but he thinks her lip twitches.

“He said he would’ve been more surprised if you actually got on the ship and pointed out it wasn’t too late until we’d actually left. Then he asked what the fuck I was doing there and said my martyr complex isn’t cute.” She pauses, “Miller’s kind of a dick.”

He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Under non-apocalypse circumstances Miller would be his third favorite person in the world but Clarke out here with him is the last thing he wants.

It’s everything he wants but it’s so, so selfish.

“You shouldn’t- You can’t-” 

She steps into the bay and and as the shadows fall over her, his eyes adjust. He can see her heart all over her face and it’s filled with hope, regret, relief and love. 

The fight goes out of him, just for a moment, and then he’ll convince her to go back.

Clarke came back. _Clarke came back_.

His pack thumps to the ground and his rifle clatters after it and he’s taken a step towards her before he even knows he was going to move.

She breathes in.

He breathes out.

He doesn’t know which one of them moves first but his arms are around her and her fingers are in his hair tugging his head down to kiss her. The adrenaline already working in overdrive ignites under his skin and for a moment there’s nothing but _woodsmokepinesweatClarke_ and how could he have thought he had no heart when it was right here all along. 

They break apart and he rests his forehead against hers.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers and that sends him spinning again; Clarke has nothing to apologize for. “I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye, I’m sorry I said those things, I’m sorry I didn’t see what you were going through. I’m just- I’m so-”

“Clarke, stop. You don’t- I’m the one who-”

“ _No_ , you were who you’ve always been, you’re everything I l-” She stops, pulls back to look at him more clearly but doesn’t let go. “I know who you are, Bellamy. I sometimes think I know you better than you do and I got so caught up in...everything that I forgot that. I thought I didn’t have to say anything because you would know and it would all fall into place but that’s not fair and that’s not how this works.”

She steps back, clutching each sleeve of his jacket at the elbows.

“I love you,” she says and he almost laughs because Clarke would make it sound like a state declaration. “I don’t care what happens next, I want to be with you wherever you are.” Her voice drops an octave when she says, “you’re my home.”

All of the things he needs to tell to her pile up and he doesn’t know which one to say first but when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “I love you.”

“I know,” she says with a smirk and he knows that even if he was strong enough to fight this, Clarke is a force of nature and there’s no stopping a hurricane.

Just as he’s on the edge of surrender, a rover pulls into the yard and they both move closer to the door, braced for disaster. 

But it's Miller at the wheel and Raven’s hanging out window with the biggest shit-eating grin on her face. “You guys figure your shit out yet?”

Bellamy glances at Clarke and she’s just as stunned as he is so whatever this is, she isn’t a part of it.

Miller pulls up alongside the door and parks, jumping out and coming around the front, trying and failing to hide his own smug smile. 

Bellamy gives up trying to comprehend any of his life in the past five minutes. “What are you doing here?”

“We passed Indra and the trading post chick and heard little Blake got herself into some trouble, thought you could maybe use a hand.”

It’s immediately obvious that Bellamy’s entirely run out of words so Clarke takes over, not doing much better. “But, you were- I saw you-”

“After you talked to Miller we saw you take off. It was pretty obvious where you were going.” And here’s Jasper climbing out of the back of the rover, Monty beside him helping Harper down. When Murphy and Emori jump out after them Bellamy decides the only logical explanation is he unknowingly ate some of those nuts again and this is all a hallucination.

“It’s like I told Octavia,” Monty says. “We survive together.”

“Survive _how_?” Clarke’s apparently dealing with all of this by working her way up to exasperated despair.

“Yeah, about that.” Miller somehow manages to look even more smug. “Emori knows where we can get a boat.”

Clarke whips her head around to the girl who waves back, a positively cat-like smirk on her face.

She turns back to Miller. “You knew?” 

Harper breaks in, awkward but earnest. “We, uh, we weren’t sure what exactly was going to happen but we figured you guys would do something dramatic so we put together a few contingency plans depending on how this,” she gestures between him and Clarke, “went down.”

She stops, suddenly confused like she’d just had an epiphany and doesn’t know what to do with it, Bellamy can relate. “It was Murphy’s idea, actually.”

Murphy scowls, clearly unwilling to admit to any part of this.

Raven leans further out her window and says, mostly to Clarke, “Your mom knows, by the way.” Clarke relaxes into his side for a fraction of a second before straightening. “She told us to take the rover and gave us a long range radio and a navigational chart.”

Bellamy stares at all of them. He didn't know anyone but Clarke could overwhelm him like this but here he is and there they are, looking so godsdamned pleased with themselves.

He has people. And they came back.

“So, is there anything else you need to get or are we good to go?” It's a good thing Miller’s focused because if it's left up to Bellamy, he'll stand there for a while longer and probably start to cry.

He glances back at his mostly empty pack, discarded in the shadowy bay, and it feels like he was an entirely different person when he grabbed it.

“No, I think we’re good here.” Somehow, against every single odd, they are.

“You mean we all piled out of the rover for nothing?” Murphy asks, aggrieved.

Clarke turns to him, “What are you even doing here? You don’t like us.”

He jerks back. “What, you thought I want to be stuck on a ship with several thousand people I hate?” He looks around, “at least I know you guys.”

And then Bellamy’s laughing so hard he’s bent double with it because somehow, _somehow,_ after everything he’s done and been through and put other people through, this is his life and he never could’ve predicted this would happen.

He’s distantly aware of everyone climbing back into the rover and then it’s just him and Clarke, Raven pulls back inside her window to give them a moment of privacy.

He straightens and Clarke takes his hand. He’s never seen her smile like that before and he knows he’s doing the same. 

“Ready?”

He tugs her closer and kisses her again because he’s a sap and, in spite of everything, so, so unbelievably happy. “Now I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I scattered references to a handful of my favorite things throughout this. No, I’m not sorry. Comments and kudos make the world go round. Thank you for reading.


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